Art is a Gift
by PsychicOtaku182
Summary: Alfred stilled as his subject stirred. FLUFFY USUK!


Hey! This is my third Hetalia fic, and my first one for this pairing. It was written for AnimeAmy26c over on Deviantart as a birthday gift. It's just pure USUK fluff.

Disclaimer:...seriously? You know, if I owned it, Russia wouldn't be as scary, and America would be a little more serious.

* * *

Alfred stilled as his subject stirred, the pencil in his hand halting it's once rapid motions across the paper. It was late afternoon, and rarely did the nation of England, Arthur Kirkland, sleep in so late. When he did though, it allowed Alfred the chance to indulge in a much loved but rarely practiced past time of Arthur-studying. His crystal blue eyes traced every feature, caressed every line, took note of every shadow, committed to the deepest recesses of his memory the contours, the hills and valley of the other, slighter nation. Often this rare occurrence would rouse Alfred to pull out a worn sketch book and a few old charcoal pencils, which would then fly across the page, slowly bringing the sleeping form into existence on paper. Blending sticks would then soften the harsh lines, softening the bold lifelike picture to an ethereal softness. Then the sleeping subject would stir, his nose wrinkling as the sketch pad was tucked away in a hidden drawer, yawning as the pencils and blenders were hidden, stretching languidly as the eraser joined the pencils, and finally blinking open large emerald green eyes as the artist wiped his glasses off as though nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired.  
Arthur stilled, and Alfred resumed his sketching. The dark pencils shading in the straw like hair, the dark eyebrows that weren't nearly as thick as they looked, and the long dark eyelashes that hid the fey emerald eyes. An eraser brought a faint scar on the cheek into existence, as skilled fingers guided the instruments along with a soft and loving touch.  
Alfred glanced up to look at his subject, only to find his eyes locked on a pair, so alike, so different from his own. Arthur's lips curled up into a sleepy smile, his green eyes not fully open. It was obvious that he was enjoying the bug-eyed surprise of the artist who moments earlier had been mapping out his form on the paper before him.  
"Good afternoon, love. Is this what you're always doing when I sleep late?" Arthur asked, stretching like a cat before slipping off the couch and padding across the room to where Alfred sat, fingers tight around the charcoal pencil.  
Alfred cleared his throat. "S-sometimes." He muttered, closing the book and moving to put it away. Arthur grabbed his arm.  
"Please, let me see it." He asked, and Alfred gulped before sitting down, passing the small sketchbook to Arthur, who recognized it.  
"You actually used it." Arthur murmured, as he opened the Victorian era sketch book that he had given Alfred for Christmas years and years ago, when the Sun never set on the English Empire.  
The first few pages where crude sketches of birds, plants, and animals, the artist obviously new to the art. Soon, though, the pictures began to come to life, with a vibrancy that rivaled Audubon and his bird paintings.  
Arthur blushed as he turned the page. There he was, stretched out on the settee, tie undone, hair a mess, right shoe missing, left shoe barely on, obviously asleep. "Arthur, December, 1918" read the messy writing in the bottom right corner.  
There were more, the rest of the sketch book. Pictures of him sleeping, at various times, in various places, sometimes looking ragged, others looking whimsical, often looking ethereal, all sketched with a loving hand, with such attention to detail that Arthur felt incredible over-whelming love.  
Finally, he reached the last picture in the book, the next-to-last page. It was unfinished, though the artist could no doubt finish it from memory. He lay, curled up, half on top of the pillow, wearing one of Alfred's dress shirts, hand grasping the pillowcase, legs tangled in the sheets, here showing, there covered, bathed in the soft afternoon light. Arthur smiled, lowering the book to look at the artist, who was staring at the floor in apprehension.  
Alfred had never shown anyone his sketch book, not the one that Arthur held in his hand, or the countless notebooks with sketches of birds, the other nations, and random people from all over the world in them. He started when Arthur wrapped his arms around him.  
"Never has anything ever made me feel as loved as these sketches." Arthur said, nuzzling his nose into Alfred's neck from behind.  
Alfred smiled and kissed the pale, scarred hands.  
Art was a gift to be shared with others.

* * *

A few notes. The December, 1918 refers to WWI, which ended in late 1918, so obviously, Iggy would be exhausted. Also, Audubon refers to James Audubon, for whom the Audubom society was named. James Audubon is known for his paintings of birds in their natural habitat.


End file.
